


hallelujah

by orphan_account



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Biphobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religion, Weddings, or really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 21:36:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8549989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Seungcheol falls in love, and maybe this time it'll stay that way.





	

The hard part, he’s realized, isn’t really that Jihoon is marrying a woman.

 

There’s always this underlying hurt when a man you used to love shows up with a woman on his arm, as though he’s somehow crossed you personally by giving in and switching sides. It isn’t a fair mentality, Seungcheol knows; especially when he himself has never been opposed to the company of women.

 

But this time, it isn’t some kind of self-oblivious feeling of betrayal. Instead, the tightness in his gut seems to take the voice of the man at the altar: whispers of how can we do this if we’re both men, noises of disapproval when Seungcheol reaches for his hand in public, half-hearted explanations to his parents about why neither he nor his roommate is looking for a wife.

 

As Jihoon’s fingers fiddle with his cufflinks, Seungcheol realizes that even after two years and a barely-mended heart, he cares for him. He’s scared that Jihoon is going this far because he’s afraid of the alternative: that he’s tying himself down to someone he’s incapable of falling in love with, who will never understand why the man who dedicated his life to her shies away from her touch. Because maybe they haven’t spoken since he packed his things and left Seoul with all its heartbreak behind, but a part of him will always love Jihoon, and he doesn’t want that for Jihoon or the woman he’s marrying.

 

He may be selfish, but he still wants to believe that this is love. It seems like it, with the way Jihoon is shifting his weight between legs, the way he used to when he was up to something but didn’t want to tell Seungcheol what. He wants to believe Jihoon is allowing himself good things, the way he never really knew how to before.

 

The doors open, and Jihoon snaps to attention. Seungcheol keeps his gaze on the wedding pamphlet in his hands. Sitting in the pew next to him, Mingyu blows something that sounds suspiciously like a sob into his tissue. Minghao elbows him, then squeezes his hand where he thinks no one can see it. Mingyu takes this as an invitation to lean his entire body into Minghao’s in an attempt to muffle his cries about how he’s just _so, so happy for hyung_.

 

Seungcheol is happy, too; somehow, he finds that it isn’t even forced. He’s a type of happy where he’s able to put aside the resentment, the longing that sits deep in his stomach, even the slight jealousy rearing itself as Jihoon’s lips part with what could only be reverence. Jihoon takes his bride’s hand in his own, and Seungcheol wonders if he himself ever actually let go.

 

\--

 

There’s a smile on Jihoon’s lips that Seungcheol has never seen before. It’s gentle in a way that he didn’t know Jihoon was even capable of, in the five years they had been friends or the three they had been something more. The bride is almost laughably taller than him, heels only accentuating the difference, but he seems content to look up at her.

 

The champagne tastes bitter on Seungcheol’s tongue.

 

A hand finds its way to his shoulder, causing him to jump in his seat. He rolls his eyes and turns his head to the side, expecting to find Hansol or Seungkwan ready to annoy him into “putting himself out there,” which is a lot easier to say when you’ve been dating since diapers. Instead, it’s a man he hasn’t seen before, looking about his age with short honey-coloured hair.

 

“I was going to ask to buy you a drink, until I realized that not only do you have a glass, but the drinks are free,” the man says, pink lips pointed upwards.

 

A laugh bubbles up Seungcheol’s throat, surprisingly sincere. “Are you really trying to hit up a stranger at a wedding reception?” he teases.

 

“Maybe I just find it sad to see someone sitting alone at what’s supposed to be a celebration of love,” the other man says, quirking an eyebrow.

 

Seungcheol snorts. “The last person I fell in love with just got married and made me watch it.”

 

“Well,” the stranger considers, and slides his hand down Seungcheol’s shoulder until it’s tugging at his sleeve. “Maybe it’s time to fall in love with somebody else.”

 

The man’s confidence wrestles a genuine smile onto Seuncheol’s face. “Awfully bold of someone who hasn’t even told me his name.”

 

He lets the stranger pull him to the dance floor, now crowded with couples wrapped in each others’ arms. He sees Hansol accidentally step on Seungkwan’s toes, making the older yelp while Hansol curls over in laughter. One of the bridesmaids, a short-haired woman in a tux whose name he vaguely remembers sounding English, presses a kiss to the cheek of the girl in her arms. In the center of the room, Jihoon lets his wife lead, staring at her like she hung the stars in the sky.

 

The stranger moves Seungcheol’s hands to his waist. They sway to the beat, and when the other man leans up to align their lips, he whispers his own name. Seungcheol tastes the syllables on his tongue and lets his eyes drift closed before the song can end.

 

They stay like that through the next few songs, silence only interrupted as the man in his arms—Jisoo—hums along to the melodies. He has a beautiful voice, Seungcheol notes: softer than most men he knows, but sweet. He has the kind of voice you’d associate with a grade school teacher, though Seungcheol doesn’t exactly remember ever wondering how his grade school teachers would sound with his mouth pressed all over them.

 

“You don’t sound fully Korean,” he says as Jisoo slightly stumbles over the lyrics of an old song.

 

Jisoo flashes a self-deprecating smile. “You caught me. I grew up in America—that’s where I met the woman of the hour, actually. We went to university together. I just moved here a few weeks ago, so I’m staying with family until I find an apartment.”

 

Seungcheol hums, and ignores the part of his gut that’s relieved to find out Jisoo wasn’t here as a guest of Jihoon’s. “You should meet Hansol. He’s the one with blond hair, in the awful unfitted tux.” He nudges his chin in the direction of the man in question, who is now leaning his chin against his boyfriend’s neck as they talk to someone Seungcheol doesn’t recognize. “He’s half-American, which means all he ever does is laugh when the rest of us try to speak English.”

 

He feels Jisoo’s chest rumble against his own as he chuckles. “I think I’m more interested in hearing your voice than his,” he teases, leaning so his lips brush against Seungcheol’s ear. He tries to hide the tingle that runs down his spine.

 

“That can be arranged,” he says, taking one of Jisoo’s hands in his and bringing it to his lips, allowing his teeth to graze the skin. Jisoo moves their entwined fingers and presses his mouth where his hand had been. The kiss is over too soon, and Jisoo breaks away completely—his eyes glance over to the married couple, then back at Seungcheol.

 

“I’m going to thank them, tell them I have to leave, and then we’re going to my hotel room,” he says, the hint of a question in his eyes. Seungcheol doesn’t bother to act coy, just presses their lips firmly together one more time. As Jisoo walks away, Seungcheol realizes that in the past few minutes, he hadn’t thought about Jihoon once.

 

\--

 

It isn’t rushed, the way these things usually are. Instead of frantic kisses and torn buttons, Jisoo smiles into his kisses; he hums against Seungcheol’s mouth, tracing patterns with his tongue. Seungcheol can barely even breathe, like the sweat on his brow has turned the whole room humid, making him gasp as he pulls off Jisoo’s lips just to crash them back together a moment later.

 

The hotel bed is too soft, but it’s worth it for the way Jisoo sinks into it. He moans against Seungcheol, dragging fingers beneath his dress shirt and pressing callouses— _guitar player_ , he had told Seungcheol—into the spaces between his vertebrae.

 

Seungcheol pulls off again, this time moving himself onto his elbows. Jisoo makes a noise of disagreement, sliding his hands to Seungcheol’s front and splaying them against his abs. His eyes slowly blink open, like they’re being held down by lead, and the tip of his tongue peeks out from between swollen lips.

 

“Come back,” he says, and it takes everything Seungcheol has to ignore him and slide down the bed. He breathes against Jisoo’s stomach, feeling it twitch as Seungcheol’s fingers wrap around the buttons of his shirt.

 

He presses butterfly kisses along the newly revealed skin, all the way until he reaches the end. Jisoo hastily shrugs the shirt off and Seungcheol’s eyes catch sight of black ink on the side of his ribs. His lips part in a breathy laugh.

 

“Really?” he asks, tracing the cross with light fingers. “What are you, some kind of repressed choir boy?”

 

He feels Jisoo’s body tremble at the touch, even as the other tries to keep his breathing steady. “I don’t think believing in God and being gay are mutually exclusive,” he manages, burying his fingers into Seungcheol’s hair.

 

In lieu of a response, Seungcheol dips his head so he can press his teeth against Jisoo’s newly exposed collarbone, dragging along tanned skin. Jisoo lets out a few short breaths and pulls slightly on his hair, encouraging Seungcheol to bite down. The gasp that escapes Jisoo is enough to make him think that, maybe, somehow, there is a God; for what else could explain the man pinned under him, tugging on his hair until he raises his head for another kiss?

 

\--

 

When he wakes up, he’s still in Jisoo’s hotel room, and there’s still a body pressed against his. His hand finds its way to Jisoo’s hair almost involuntarily, then follows the curve of his cheekbone. He pulls away and tries to sit up, but his skin is bare, the air is cold, and something holds him back.

 

Jisoo’s eyes are blinking crust out of the corners, but his grip on Seungcheol’s wrist is firm. “Stay,” he murmurs, voice raspy from sleep.

 

And Seungcheol has never been good at resisting temptation.

 

And Jisoo is warm against him, burrowing into his neck, and a voice in his head whispers: _I want this, I want this, I want you_.

 

\--

 

Jihoon calls him later that day, when he’s sitting in bed as Jisoo takes a shower. He’s surprised, honestly: that Jihoon got his number, that he wasn’t too busy on his honeymoon or having crazy post-marital sex, that he bothered to call at all. Jihoon has never been a huge fan of putting effort into things that don’t fit neatly in his life plan.

 

“Seungcheol,” he begins. It’s the first time they’ve spoken directly to one another in two years, and hearing his name in that voice almost breaks him all over again.

 

“Jihoon,” Seungcheol replies.

 

Jihoon doesn’t move to continue.

 

“Why was I invited?” Seungcheol asks, after a few beats of silence. It doesn’t seem like Jihoon has a plan for this conversation, anyway, and this has been bothering Seungcheol since he got the letter three months ago.

 

“You’re important to me,” is all Jihoon says. Seungcheol hears a muffled voice on the other end, female, and Jihoon’s mumbled response. His fingers grip his phone tighter.

 

He snorts. “Bullshit. We haven’t been in the same room for two years.” _I made sure of it._

 

“That was your decision. Besides, it’s easier that way,” Jihoon says, voice annoyingly calm. “We didn’t love each other anymore, but every time I saw you, I wanted to. It wasn’t fair to either of us to try to convince ourselves that nothing changed.”

 

“We didn’t love—fuck, Jihoon, stop speaking for the both of us. I never stopped loving you,” Seungcheol spits out. He swallows the bile rising in his throat with a swig of the water bottle Jisoo left on the bedside table.

 

The petty part of Seungcheol feels satisfied with the annoyed groan Jihoon lets out. “Just because you couldn’t tell the difference doesn’t mean I couldn’t. You stopped waiting up for me, you started sleeping in your own room—”

 

“You’re the one who wanted a two bedroom apartment even though I slept in your fucking bed every night!” Seungcheol hisses, trying to keep his voice from rising.

 

He can almost see Jihoon run a hand over his face in frustration. “I don’t know why I even bothered to call you when I knew you wouldn’t listen. I just...” he pauses, then takes a breath. His shoulders slump. “I love you, still, if not the way I used to. You matter to me, even though you’re a melodramatic asshole who decided the only way to deal with a breakup is by changing your fucking number and moving to the opposite end of the country. And I wanted the people I love to be there. It was important to me. Sorry if that was selfish, or whatever.”

 

Seungcheol doesn’t reply at first, staring at the pile of his clothes on the floor. He remembers the first time he and Jihoon had sex—tentative, full of reassurances and flushed faces—versus the last time, with clawed backs and bites angry enough to draw blood.

 

And, God, he’s so fucking _tired_. He’s tired of idealizing something he had lost before it even ended, he’s tired of running away, he’s tired of quick fucks in club bathrooms and “lost” phone numbers. He’s tired of letting a ghost control his life, like he’s some sort of Jihoon-induced zombie that doesn’t know how to live unless the man he once loved comes crawling back to him.

 

That isn’t who he wants to be anymore. So he says, “I’ve been thinking of moving back to Seoul,” which isn’t technically a lie—even though it had only occurred to him about an hour before. (He thinks of Jisoo, looking for apartments, and wonders how he feels about sharing a bedroom.)

 

He’s not in love with Jisoo—not yet. But when Jihoon says, “Good,” and hangs up, which is so _like him_ , Seungcheol doesn’t wish for something more. He doesn’t wish it were four years ago, when they were so young and so in love and had no fucking idea what they were doing, and it was okay because they had each other.

 

Now, he knows what he’s doing. He loves Jihoon, but not the way he used to, and maybe Jihoon’s right: maybe it has been a while since he has. But that doesn’t matter, because he’s tired of basing all his decisions on what his life used to be.

 

When Jisoo walks out of the bathroom, towel hanging loosely around his waist, Seungcheol pulls him down and burrows himself into the wet skin. Jisoo releases a huff that’s more of a laugh, that turns into a moan when Seungcheol leans up to suck a bruise next to a collection from last night.

 

Jihoon will be fine, Seungcheol knows now, but that’s not what he’s thinking about.

 

He thinks of the tattoo on Jisoo’s ribs and decides that maybe, the act of forgetting is just as valid as the act of falling. And maybe _moving on_ and _staying where you want to be_ are not mutually exclusive.

**Author's Note:**

> very very very very slightly inspired by my first wedding - the wombats. woozi's bride is left ambiguous because i wanted to emphasize seungcheol's focus on jihoon, but i pictured her as ailee (on that note, the bridesmaid mentioned was amber and the girl she's dancing with could be any of the 5,000 women she's always flirting with).
> 
> this is my first ever non-femslash fic, if we ignore my 2011 ffnet days, and i'm not entirely sure how i feel about it yet but i hope you guys enjoy it! i'm also super tempted to write gyuhao/soonseok because i'm a complete sucker for trashy, relatively obscure ships. i do actually like jicheol, so i might write something for them that isn't this.


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